


make you better

by Macremae



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 21:23:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16462589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macremae/pseuds/Macremae
Summary: Newt learns for the second time how to hurt, heal, and help.





	make you better

The thing is--

Well, the thing is, it wasnt a fucking addiction.

That’s what everybody thinks, anyway. The Drift got too strong, he needed it, he needed it more than he loved the world or his friends or Hermann or-- or whatever. Newt doesn’t know anymore. But that’s not how the story goes.

His therapist says it was more along the lines of self harm, and oh boy, isn’t that a trip back in time. The last time Newt actively self-harmed was in college, with a bag of razor blades he bought from the mini-mart across from his job waiting tables as TGI Friday’s. During the bad parts, or sometimes just after work, he’d crawl back to his singlet dorm room and rip his arms open with whisper soft lines of trickling red. The blood crawled down his arms like little rivers, marching one-two-three here we go now. It looked almost beautiful, if you were sick and twisted and crazy.

Which: yeah. No kidding.

But it wasn’t an addiction. It was lethal self harm. Apparently, after the Breach had closed, Newt was coming down from a massive, and that lady means massive, manic episode, and everything sort of crashed. The Precursors walked in, took one look at the place, and grinned until their stupid crazy teeth shone blue in the moonlight of a quiet mind. They twisted his depression into a cage of bone and skin and snarling stitches on pale freckled skin.

He Drifted to hurt, and he Drifted to feel numb, and he Drifted because there wasn’t any other fucking choice, okay, so just drop it. He Drifted because it was raining and the streets were cold and icy, and Hermann wasn’t here, was never here, and was never coming home. They didn’t let him cut again, because those scars were noticeable and they didn’t want him to fuck up those lovely tattoos.

More Drifting. More slicing his mind open, letting little rivers run. Down down down the rabbit hole goes the freakazoid.

Self harm is kind of an addiction, if you think about it. You can’t stop, you don’t want to. You train your body to respond to any kind of stress or pain with an immediate action of agony, and once you notice, it’s too late to stop. So you bleed and you bleed until your body is dry as a nice little crisp. Like jerky.

Ha! Bleed until you’re jerky. That would make an awesome song.

So maybe it was an addiction. Maybe. But there weren’t any drugs. It didn’t give him a rush, or make him feel good, or give him any kind of pleasure or euphoria or anything like that. It was pain. Pure, unadulterated pain and anger, washing out like bloody waves after a battle at sea.

Gentle hands, his therapist used to say. Pet your scars. See where you’ve hurt. See where you’ve healed. Try again.

Some days, Newt doesn’t want to try again. They’re loud, y’see. The Precursors. Yeah, Hermann hasn’t used his big genius brain to entirely get rid of them yet, so those folks are still poking around in his head, having a grand old time fucking things up. They whisper soft lies to him, tell him he’s undeserving of love, yadda yadda yadda. Newt spent ten years hearing this crap. He’s got a boyfriend now. Fuck off.

When he was in his cell, sores on his arms and legs festering as the restraints rubbed new tattoos, Newt thought a lot about death. He thought about never seeing the sun again, about light never worming it’s way into his eyes, about never feeling Hermann glare at him, then secretly smile under his hand.

Of course he kind of wanted to die. He was off his meds, depressed as all get out, and completely void of any hope or coping mechanisms. Hermann barely got to visit him, the Precursors would not shut the goddamn hell up, and the only thing he had for entertainment was a million hour long movie of all the times he’d fucked up. Life was pretty shitty. Granted, the past ten years hadn’t been much better, but at least he wasn’t hurting anyone anymore.

And that was the thing. When he had been captured (thanks, Nate, you’re a great punch and a real all-American hero, suck a dick or three), all Newt could feel was relief. The Precursors were captured. He wasn’t going to hurt anyone again. Either he would be saved, in which case, yay, or he would die in questioning, which would suck, but dear God at this point Newt would take anything.

The first few days were rough. Hermann wasn’t allowed to see him, meatheads kept coming in and asking questions he couldn’t answer, and the Precursors had completely taken over all channels going in and out of Newt Central. No new calls, no visitors, and no requests. Beeeeeeeep. He got beat up a lot.

They broke his arms, and one of his legs, until Hermann stormed in there and raised hell about “inhumane treatment” or whatever. Newt didn’t really care. He was dissociating so hard he thought he saw David Bowie in the corner with a saxophone. Which: neat. But the nicer treatment was certainly a plus.

Then came the real fun: breaking free. Newt had to work harder than he’d ever in his life. Taking back control wasn’t as easy as just making out with Hermann and letting the Power of Love do it’s holy work. He had to actively strain to raise his goddamn pinky, and even that was no cakewalk. And then, after that, Newt had to relearn how to control a body. This meant no spacing out during conversations, no collapsing in a heap because he forgot he had to move again, and no letting the Precursors come back in the middle of an argument because things got a little heated.

And it was hard. Like, serious physical therapy levels of hard. But all that seemed like child’s play for what would come next.

Hermann Drifted with him, of course, because that seemed to fix everything these days. It was electric and red, swirling with colors and sound and light, and HermannHermannHermann safe and warm and here. He was home, loved so completely it shook him to his core.

So. Power of love is real. Who knew?

The next step was hospitalization (and, again: bringing back memories) and treatment for his, like, three million injuries. That hurt. The drugs were kind of nice, but the needles weren’t. God, Newt hated needles. They patched up his wounds and wrapped him in gauze and forbade him from moving for a week. Boooooring.

Hermann practically lived in his hospital room during that time. He brought Newt books, and food that didn’t taste like dirt, and clothes that made him feel real again. He held Newts hand and stroked it gently, his thumb moving across the skin in smooth patterns. He sang, sometimes, when the nightmares got too bad to sleep.

Here’s a nightmare Newt sometimes has:

He’s in a cell, dark and dimly lit. His feet and hands are chained to the floor, thick iron links holding him down. Water drips down the walls like blood. It is cold and small.

A noise at the bars: it’s a guard. They unlock the door with a stained key and walk inside, pulling Newt to his feet. He can’t hear what they mumble, but it’s probably bad. Probably.

He’s hauled out into the hallway, an almost medieval structure of concrete and stone. The other prisoners howl and jeer, their cries echoing off the walls. Newt flinches, moving closer to the guard and shuffling forward only when they prod him in the back. He moves as quietly as possible down the long hall, everything staccato and unreal.

Like a lost child, Newt steps out into the blinding sunlight. There is a crowd in the vast arena, cheering and roaring like lions. The guard pushes him out onto the sand, undoing his chains and handing him a knife.

“Good luck,” they say.

Newt stares across the arena at the bars holding back a snarling sound. They raise, moving upward with a clank, and lock into place. The beast emerges.

It’s a massive Kaiju, unfamiliar and covered in glowing scales. It’s teeth are long, like a sabertooth cat’s. It screams, the sound echoing across the arena and blasting Newt with the full strength of it’s force. It charges, pounding across the sand straight towards--

And usually, Newt wakes up.

These are the bad nights, the nights when the hurt is so bad that it crawls into his chest and won’t let go. His arms itch, and his skin shakes, and he wants to go home, he wants to go home. He wants to tear his skin off and burrow under the ground until springtime comes. He wants the pain, the thick, choking pain, to stop. It rips out his chest and strangles his lungs until he can’t breathe from crying. He is full of love, he knows this, but the sky is black and the stars look so very far away tonight.

Those nights were the worst before Tokyo. Before Hermann was there to comfort him. Those nights he couldn’t sleep for crying so hard, if he were able to cry at all. Newt was alone in the world, so truly and terribly alone, and there was no one coming to save him. He knew, he just fucking knew, that he was going to die alone, surrounded by the wreckage of what he had caused. He was a monster, a bonafide fucking monster, and he burned everything he touched and he ruined everyone he met and why couldn’t he just die.

They were silent, those nights. He tortured himself enough.

He wanted to be held. He wanted to be loved and comforted, and he knew he didn’t deserve it. He was broken and tattered, and who could ever learn to love a beast? No more fairy tales, no happy endings, just a sad little man and his pulpy heart on the ground.

The hospital times were fuzzy, partially because of the pain meds, and partially because he was dissociating pretty badly. It was practically a mental ward, what with the constant watch. The first time Mako visited, Newt nearly had a breakdown he was so afraid. He was convinced he had gone insane, that he was seeing things that weren’t there and he was going to die. She sat there, calm as a stone, until he collapsed in tears and wondered aloud if this were hell on Earth.

She told him no, it was the infirmary, which was pretty close.

They took away the sharp things and dangerous things and snipped all the corners until everything was soft and smooth, and then they made him mud and baked him in the sun until dry. There was question after question, interview after interview, therapy and therapy and more healing words until Newt thought he was going to scream.

Kind hands. Gentle hands. We can try again, Newt, there you go, breathe inandout and whatarethreethingsyoucansee and feelthegroundbeneathyou and piece yourself together, once more, with feeling.

He clutched at his head and screamed. They fixed his meds. He threw a chair at the therapist. They fixed his meds again and this time made him promise to calm the fuck down a little. Yes sir. No sir. I can try again.

They fixed his meds.

First life was a fog, then a blur, then a screaming haze of static that was probably out to kill him. He was so manic he thought he might burst, he was so depressed he was sure he was dying, he was maybe a little in between? Who knows. Who cares. He had a boyfriend now suckaz. Try and take that away, see how Hermann likes it. 

He had to get his weight back up, that was for sure. Newt had never been skinny before, and it felt strange. His old clothes were too loose, and his limbs were too bony, and he was so freaking cold. Oh, yeah, apparently when aliens almost starve you to death, they don’t leave enough fat for body heat. Who knew.

Eating again was a strange experience. Newt loved food, that was for sure. He had missed pancakes with granola and fresh blueberries, and chicken stir-fry with mango sauce drizzled on top like honey, and strawberry poptarts, and ice cream cake, and sushi and apples and a real goddamn burger with too much ketchup. He couldn’t eat too much too quickly because hungry bodies don’t like that, but the first time he had shrimp lo-mein again Newt made noises so lewd that Hermann turned purple.

He was healing. That was good. That was really good, actually.

And there are days, yeah. When everything feels bright and sunny and easy, when the world isn’t out to get him, when Hermann doesn’t need to hold his hand (but does because he’s a big old sap). Newt fucking loves those days, and they’re more often now, which proves that therapy works, and so does Abilify. And Prozac. And Valproate. And also Dialectical Behavior Therapy.

His heart feels lighter, like there’s been a massive weight lifted off it. His chest isn’t quite so tight, and his head is Precursor-free, baby, and he smiles more. He doesn’t flinch at loud noises or break down in the middle of the hallway, and the cadets have warmed up to him enough that Cool Science with Newt occasionally happens.

The world spins on. Newton Geiszler gets better. Nobody dies.

We can try again.


End file.
